


Of course, John!

by Esbe



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-29
Updated: 2016-10-09
Packaged: 2018-07-27 12:56:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,235
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7618915
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Esbe/pseuds/Esbe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This started as a one-shot short fic. The first chapter is pure angst with no redeeming feature whatsoever not even a bit of fluff in sight. You've been warned.<br/>But I added another chapter later with a bit of fluff. <br/>There may be another one but I'm not sure cos this is more of a filler when nothing else is happening.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

John is pacing now. His agitation is evident in every step and in his every feature. He is speaking in broken sentences almost to the point of incomprehensibility (to anyone except Sherlock). He is repeating sentences and concepts and sometimes jumping between them. He is trying to speak evenly but his volume oscillates. He has his hands tucked firmly in his pockets as if afraid of what they might do if let loose. Every now and then he makes it a point to look at Sherlock. As if to assure Sherlock that he isn’t being avoided. Or perhaps he is assuring himself. Perhaps both- John is rarely selfish.

He concentrates on each and every word that John says, he makes note of every gesture, every nuance. He stays calm until John’s words jolt him. He knows John never means to hurt him. Ever. But, after all, there is a bit of self-preservation in each human. John is still speaking. His anguish is palpable.

“…And what if I fall in love with you, Sherlock? What happens then?” John looks up sharply at him. The anguish in his voice nearly crushes Sherlock. He wishes John hadn’t used that particular word. But he stays unmoving. He isn’t sure but John’s lip may have trembled a bit. And is that a sheen of tears in his eyes as he returns to his pacing?

“You are already….” Finally, John removes his hands and moves them expansively as if covering the universe, “…to me. Everything.” He tucks his hands in again.

“Everything. Much more than everything. But that won’t be enough. I’ll need more, I’ll ask for more. From you. And you don’t… won’t… You… you are you and I am still me. And yeah god, it will be easy, so damned easy.” For the first time the soldier’s shoulders hunch a bit in defeat. He inhales quietly. “It will be easy, but, I will want more and if you… I’m not saying I’m right okay? Or-or bloody better or that my fucking wants and needs are more normal or superior. None of that. Just that they are. I know I have them. And I cannot… don’t want you… us… I…" Again he stops to breathe.

"You are perfect as you are. Just right. And we are good. And I can take it as a friend, best mate, colleague, flatmate, partner. I can and I like it. But if we became more then I would resent it. It would poison everything. And I can’t change okay? I don’t want you to change either. Why should you? But if… if we… I will be the one to ask for more, to ask for change, for things you can’t or won’t give. I will need to _give_ you things that you don’t need or maybe don’t care for. And I don’t want us there, Sherlock. Can’t you see?”

As usual John takes far longer to say things that could be said with a single word. A simple no would have sufficed. But then the John Watsons of this world rarely said no to the Sherlock Holmeses therein. But John isn't done yet, and, having started this, Sherlock is committed to hearing him out.

John gives a bitter laugh, “Hell! I’m already halfway there. I’ve made you my life’s centre. I did it myself. I don’t … But this bit… this bit I need to myself. For me. I need to. You hold all the power here, Sherlock. All of it. And its okay. I don’t mind… I like it. Just the way that I like you needing me and not saying it cos then I don’t need to say it either. That’s what friends do. And yes, I have had sex without love. And it didn’t bother me.”

He shakes his head and looks almost pleading.

“But... but with you it would… Can’t you see? I’ve already given you all… So don’t okay. Just please don’t ask this of me, okay. Cos I need to leave something of me for me. Okay? And yeah! I’m fucking scared. Call me a bloody coward if you want. But I can’t. Just leave this piece of me for me. Please. I’m… I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I can’t.”

John stops and looks him square in the eye.

Sherlock can see the struggle in him. He can see that his hand is clasping and unclasping, a hint of a tremor again. His frown lines are prominent even though he is trying his best to keep a neutral face. The bravery is a soldier’s, but the honesty is all John Watson’s.

And as with John Watson every time - Sherlock feels utterly helpless at that moment. All that he ever wanted, all that he craves, is just right there, right in front of him. Three and a half paces away. Embodied in John. Who holds himself shuttered and vulnerable at the same time. He knows he is being selfish and greedy asking John this, but if not John then who? John has given him so much. John is entwined in his very existence now. How can he let go? Even the withdrawal from cocaine hadn’t hurt this bad. This is a far stronger addiction.

But John has seldom asked him for anything. So…

He says, “Of course, John.”

And walks out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> On 28th of July this week my hero and idol - the author [Mahasweta Devi ](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mahasweta_Devi)passed away at the age of 90. Winner of the Magasasay Award and numerous national awards, she embodied all that I have ever wished to be. A daughter of the neo-renaissance in the sub-continent, she was a litterateur, a social activist, a journalist, a truly modern thinker and a modern woman.  
> I idolise her because  
> \- she was one of those authors who wrote in a regional language (Bengali) and yet manage to cross the so-called language barrier.  
> \- her fight for the right of tribals and other oppressed people won her the hearts of the people and the enmity of the state and those in power.  
> \- in her stories like Jhansir Rani (biography of the Rani of Jhansi, a martyr of the first war of independence), Hazarchurasir Maa (The mother of no. 1084, the story of a mother of an alleged naxalite), Aryaner Adhikar (The Rights of the Forest) she chose to give voice to and champion people and causes that we the common middle class chose to turn a blind eye towards.  
> Her literary triumphs are legendary and shall survive many generations. She leaves behind a rich legacy of fighting for justice, believing in doing right, and serving humanity above all.  
> My salute to my hero. You will be missed.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What if?

About a week later they were seated at the table after a crazy chase both following and being followed by a psychotic killer. One look at Sherlock’s tired face coupled with John’s mulish scowl and Lestrade had allowed them to go home instead of ordering them to the Yard.

*****

John had been at the clinic that morning when Sherlock had disappeared without a word to Greg or John. When he had left home Sherlock had been stretched on the sofa in his _thinking pose_ , and had been refusing food, sleep and communication. John had merely alerted Greg, as was his practice now, and put in his regular hours at the surgery. It had been a hellish three days already. A deranged killer had been on the loose; Sherlock had been dogging his steps, each time just missing him. They had been going and coming at all times. The mood in the flat had been blacker than usual. As usual Sherlock hadn’t eaten or slept for those days either.

When he first returned to find the detective missing John had first called his mobile, gotten his whereabouts (with surprising calm given his exasperation) and then the DI’s to relay them, cursed Sherlock for losing John’s revolver a few days back, and rushed to the site as fast as was humanly possible in London.

Just as well, seeing as the quarry had become the hunter. Sherlock had managed to follow the killer to a warehouse that was very obviously owned by a _packers and movers_ agency. The chase had begun in the parking outside where a fleet of lorries and pickups made an amazing maze to dodge any pursuers. However, the killer had extracted a heavy gun from somewhere, perhaps one of those vehicles, and it had been Sherlock and John running for their lives. It was John who had found a window with a dodgy latch. They scrambled into a tiny office, or it seemed tiny given that it was stuffed with stacks of paperwork. John had tried his best to lock the window again but had little hope, if he could find it then a determined psycho could as well. Fortunately, the door wasn’t locked or they’d be sitting ducks for anyone looking in through the window. There was no way of locking the door from outside. Inside the warehouse, there were cardboard boxes everywhere and narrow gaps in between. John had been determinedly pushing a few heavy boxes to block the door when a loud crack, followed by splintering glass, was followed by a bullet right though the door. Luckily for John he had been bending, unluckily for Sherlock he had not. He had been nicked in the arm and had bled profusely as they scrambled to get away and hide between the rows of boxes. Of course, given the demonstrated firepower their pursuer had, being out of sight was no guarantee of safety. He could have blasted stacks of crates to get to them. By the time the Yarders got there, Sherlock’s sleeve was drenched and dripping blood.

As usual, the bloody idiot had refused medical help till John had bullied him to it. John had been so enraged by then that the whole cleaning, stitching, pumping of anti-biotics, drinking of fluids with electrolytes, et al had been accomplished with almost no fuss. Sherlock had even acquiesced to the bloody orange shock blanket!

As soon as they reached home, John had gone off to the wash, retrieved the bottle of meds, helped Sherlock to change (taking a look at the dressing, it wasn’t stained) and wash, pushed some food into his flatmate, followed it with tea, and here they were now, adrenaline receded, tired, one of them barely able to sit up, the other too keyed up to even blink. Finally, John did blink and noticed Sherlock ready to slide off his chair.

*****

“Get up,” he said, rising himself. Sherlock slowly got to his feet, wincing as he unthinkingly pushed up on his arms. It is unclear why this happened next but John said, “Sherlock?” in a querying voice, prompting Sherlock to raise his head enquiringly. “I’m going to hug you, okay?” Sherlock merely blinked and turned his palms outward in mute and weak invitation. John wrapped his arms around Sherlock’s waist resting his cheek against Sherlock’s shoulder.

“Am I allowed to hug you as well, John?” John merely nodded and felt Sherlock hug him back, quickly adjusting John’s head so his own could rest easily atop it, “Good.”

They stood there for a long time, or perhaps too short a time. Sherlock smelled wonderful. It was the smell of the dressing, of shower gel and after-shave, of London and of 221, of a crazy pursuit and coming home, of danger and safety together. John was sure that he shared some of those smells. John still couldn’t make himself forget the near miss with death. They had had such incidents too many times. Sometimes it was he but mostly it was Sherlock. Sherlock would rush headlong into danger with nary a thought. Yes, they had had many such incidents, but instead of getting used to them, John found himself feeling more concerned for Sherlock with each passing incident. His fears for Sherlock’s well-being were only growing stronger. He would always have Sherlock’s back. Always. But he dreaded the day he wasn’t.

“John?”

John came to himself and realised that Sherlock was swaying on his feet. Of course, the bloody git was tired, starved and sleep deprived and the adrenaline rush was wearing off. He stepped away and walked Sherlock to his room. He found a certain peace in putting his detective to sleep. He sat on the edge of the bed, smoothing the bedclothes around Sherlock. Seeing him tucked safely in his bed or rolled on the sofa under a throw gave John fewer sleepless or nightmare plagued nights. He didn’t pause to wonder why. It just was. Just as he and Sherlock— _they_ _were_.

He told himself he was tired as well and he should stop this… whatever, and go to sleep. With a soft sigh he heaved himself from the bed. “John?”

“Hmm?”

“What if I didn’t do all this?”

“Sorry, what?”

For someone as tuckered as he obviously was, Sherlock gave a mighty hefty exasperated sigh. “What if I stopped chasing criminals?”

"What are you on about?”

“I could, you know. Completely.”

“Give up The Work you mean? Are you...? What? No. No please. This is you. This is what you do and who you are. You observe and you deduce and yeah you sometimes chase criminals.”

“I put you in danger.”

“You do recall that you, the great consulting detective, deduced shotly after we met that I had no issue with facing danger. So no, I still don’t get where this is coming from.”

Sherlock gave him a baleful look. The _How can you be such an idiot_ look.

And John smiled.

“Ok, yes, I do get upset with you. But that’s because you put _yourself_ in danger. I like joining you on chases. Yeah ok, don’t give me that look, I more than like it. But… and I do realise that we aren’t equals in many ways, but I do wish you would take me along when there is likely to be danger. Even a small chance. I’ve said it a million times. Just let me know. That’s all.”

“I told you.”

“Yeah, only when I texted. What if he had taken the gun before I had reached you? We are partners, Sherlock. You can’t. Oh hell! We are having the same conversation again. So forget it and go to sleep.”

“What if I did all that? What if I ensured that you are always informed of what I am doing and where I am going?”

John’s smile grew fonder, “Yeah, like that’s ever going to happen.”

“But what if it did?”

“What, Sherlock?”

Sherlock got up with a fierce frown on his face and said, enunciating each word carefully, “Would you consider having sex with me if I ensured all of it?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, I thought the first chapter would be a stand alone. Yes I had no intention of writing any more here. yes, I must complete my other Johncroft instead.


End file.
